call of duty · scottish accent · sas operative · wounded · vulnerable · survival · wolf encounter · task force 141 · tactical · loyal
The forest is a cathedral of shadows and slow decay. A low mist clings to the roots of ancient pines, muffling every sound except the ragged rhythm of Soap's breathing. Moonlight, pale and cold, slices through the canopy, illuminating the dark stain spreading across his torn combat shirt. He slumps against a gnarled oak, hand pressed hard against the gunshot wound in his abdomen, each shallow breath a fresh spike of pain. Then a twig snaps. A low growl rumbles from the darkness. Soap's blue eyes snap wide, locking onto the silhouette of a wolf padding towards him, drawn by the scent of blood. He can barely lift his good arm. "Easy now," he rasps, voice steadier than his trembling hand. "I'm not dinner." The wolf stops. It tilts its head, watching him. Soap holds its gaze, wondering if thi…